


Before the Dawn

by louciferish



Series: Long Live the Kings [2]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Conspiracy, Dancing, Light Angst, Long-Haired Victor Nikiforov, M/M, Masks, Past minor character death, Prequel, Rebellion, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2020-04-24 20:04:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19180450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/louciferish/pseuds/louciferish
Summary: At the ball held in honor of his eighteenth birthday, a stranger vows to give Yuuri anything he wants.What he really wants is something that no one else could give.





	Before the Dawn

**Author's Note:**

> Normally I'm the sort of writer who outlines a story, then fixes the outline, then writes a draft, then waits three days, _then_ edits the story and posts it. 
> 
> Instead, this story grabbed my brain in its teeth and I pantsed the whole thing from start to finish in 48 hours. 
> 
> It just be like that sometimes.
> 
> Anyway, this is a **prequel** to The Darkest Hour, but it's meant to be read after that one, so if you haven't been down that rabbit hole already, you might want to do that first.
> 
> Go ahead.
> 
> I'll wait.

“You really don’t want to go, do you?” Yuuko says. 

Yuuri looks up, meeting her eyes in his vanity mirror. Her fingers, coated in a thick paste, are buried in his hair, and they scratch pleasantly along his scalp as she kneads the tonic in and pulls the longest strands back, away from his face.

“Of course I don’t.” Yuuri leans into her touch and closes his eyes. The potion he takes before events to clarify his eyesight is beginning to take effect, and it’s disorienting—painful, if his eyes are trying to focus, along with a strange itching sensation inside his skull. “It’s fake. It’s going to be hours of foreign officials trying to toady up to me and minor nobles introducing me to their children, and all of it pointless.”

Technically, it’s Yuuri’s coming of age. He’s eighteen today, a full adult, and he’s been king for eleven years already, not that that means anything. A peasant sleeping in the gutter at least has the freedom to choose whether he turns right or left on a forked path. Yuuri’s entire life is pre-planned by a team of men who despise him. For his birthday, he’ll shake hands with whomever they choose and dance with whomever they allow and pretend for yet another night that he’s a king, when he’s nothing more than a shadow his so-called advisors cast onto a wall. 

Yuuko’s hands still on his head and the irritation in his eyes subsides. He blinks and sees her clearly in the mirror, a small smile gracing her lips. “I got you a birthday present,” she says, and he recognizes the spark in her eyes from when they were kids. She’s up to something.

“Yuuko—” he starts to protest, but she cuts him off.

“I didn’t spend a penny on it, so don’t start!” She sticks her hand into the deep pockets beneath her skirt and pulls out a wad of fabric. It looks like nothing at all until she unrolls it, and even then it takes Yuuri a moment to recognize what it is.

The dark blue cloth is trimmed in bits of silver. He recognizes both the materials—one, from a coat she made him, and another from the vest he plans to wear tonight. He might think it was a necktie but for the two circles cut out of the center.

“A mask?” he asks, disbelieving. “But the ball isn’t a masquerade.”

“It’s a new trend, apparently,” Yuuko says. She raises the mask up, offering, and Yuuri nods, so she fits it over his face and begins tying the soft fabric in place behind his head. “They say that Victor himself attends dances in a mask, hiding himself in plain sight among the nobles as a spy. It’s started quite the fashion among the dramatics, so you probably won’t be the only one masked.” She tucks the ties in place behind his ears and adjusts the decoration to sit over his nose. “It might keep a few of the more annoying flies from buzzing around you, at least.”

 _Victor_. Yuuri bites his lip, and admires how the mask covers his cheeks, concealing his flush at the name. Anything about Victor is his and Yuuko’s little secret, a fascination they’ve built in one another through whispered rumors since they were children together. What would his advisors think, if they knew their puppet king was enamored of the very figure who was working to bring them to ruin?

Nothing pleasant.

He touches the spot where the velvet meets his cheek with hesitant fingers. “Do you really think it will work?”

In the mirror, Yuuri settles her hands on his shoulders and smiles with only a hint of sadness. “It can’t hurt anything more to try.”

-

From polished floor to peaked ceiling, the ballroom is decorated and draped with flowers and lights. Normally a gloomy and echoing expanse, a veritable army of servants has worked all week to create something that truly sparkles with beauty.

The only thing missing from the occasion is any pretense that the party is _for_ Yuuri. He’s torn on how to feel about that. Most attendees seem to know where the real power in the room lies, and they cluster and flutter in highly-perfumed swirls around the men who call themselves the king’s advisors. As Yuuko had predicted, he’s not the only one in a mask—even Chancellor Hudson has taken on the fashion, though his only covers half his face in a clear bid for attention.

Meanwhile, the king himself leans against a decorative vase and considers the scene that would ensue if he tipped it over onto the elderly merchant who has him captive, ranting about the rising cost of—of all things— _persimmons_. The poor in his kingdom can’t afford rice or milk and this man is mad about persimmons. Yuuri’s sympathetic nods are a thin veneer over his contempt, anger boiling below the surface of his eyes.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” a smooth voice says from behind the old man’s back, “but I was wondering if the king might care to dance.”

The old man steps to the side as the stranger, bowing, extends his gloved hand, and all Yuuri can think is, _Please interrupt_.

The newcomer’s clothing is simple but well-made, a striking jacket in a deep pink worn half laced over a tailored white shirt. He raises his head slightly, and bright blue eyes meet Yuuri’s through a fall of silver that nearly touches the floor as he bends double. Impudently, the man winks, and once again Yuuri is grateful for the way his new mask covers his cheeks. 

“I’d love to,” Yuuri says, and takes the stranger’s hand in his own. It’s meant to be his birthday, after all. He should get at least one dance out of it.

Within seconds, Yuuri finds himself pleased with his choice. The man takes lead without dithering, his hand placed firmly in the curve of Yuuri’s back. Most of the nobles Yuuri’s danced with have assumed the king should lead even in a waltz, but Minako made sure he knew how to do both, and Yuuri prefers this. He enjoys the feeling of being _held_.

As the stranger turns them across the floor, he smiles placidly down at Yuuri. “Happy birthday, Your Majesty. Is it a good one?”

 _It’s no worse than the other eleven that came before it, so far._ “Yes, I suppose.”

“What’s your favorite gift been this year, if you don’t mind my asking.” 

Irritation prickles in Yuuri’s chest. He’d hoped for a nice dance, not an inquisition. Small talk isn’t his strong suit, especially not when it forces him to lie. He hasn’t received any gifts, as usual, aside from—

“My friend gave me this mask,” Yuuri responds, tilting his head toward the light to show it off. “She made it for me.”

Silver eyebrows arch toward a wide forehead. The musicians flow into the next song, and the man never misses a step. “Is that all, sire? Not jewels, or fine foods? Not an expansion of your lands? No great victories in the war?”

Maybe it’s the burn of sharp red wine in Yuuri’s chest, or maybe it’s the fires that smolder forever in his heart, but something in him leaps up and forces out the truth. “I don’t believe there are _any_ true victories in war,” he says. “Either way, people suffer.”

The man’s hand grips his own tightens for a moment, then releases. He flashes Yuuri a hint of tooth, but there’s no laughter in his eyes. “Surely you prefer when your side wins, though?” he asks, incredulous.

“It’s a civil war,” Yuuri reminds him. “They’re all my people. So which side, exactly, do you think of as mine?”

For a beat, the stranger’s smooth lead falters. He recovers quickly, and his face regains composure as swiftly as his feet, but Yuuri can still see a hint of pink lingering around the bridge of his nose. Yuuri’s surprised him. Good.

He’s silent for some minutes—thinking, or has he run out of questions to ask? 

His hand is still firm in the well of Yuuri’s spine, their other hands clasped tight as he guides them in wide circles around the floor. Only a few other couples are dancing, and, immersed in one another, they don’t spare a second glance for Yuuri. He lets himself relax for now, leaning into his partner’s confident guidance. His head falls forward, his forehead resting on the other man’s shoulder, and Yuuri feels his partner stiffen, then release. The arm around Yuuri’s back wraps him in closer. 

The song will change again soon, but Yuuri isn’t ready to stop dancing. He has questions of his own, but the two of them move together as if captured under a strange spell. No one else approaches to interrupt. No one else bats an eye at the king dancing with this remarkable, foreign-looking man. If Yuuri says the wrong words, he fears the delicate glass bubble around them will show its cracks.

As the music fades to a close, Yuuri’s feet protest his steps. His embroidered dance shoes are new, and they pinch his toes, but the rest of him wants very much to keep going. The stranger draws away, and Yuuri bites his lip to keep from asking him to stay.

“Would you like a drink, sire?” 

Yuuri nods, relieved. Their conversation isn’t over, then. As the man goes to fetch their drinks, Yuuri makes his way through a pair of glass-paned double doors, out onto a stone balcony. It’s deserted tonight, the late fall air too crisp for most people’s taste, but Yuuri doesn’t mind it. The breeze smells of salt, dead leaves, and distant smoke. 

“Doesn’t your city look beautiful from up here, sire?” The voice startles Yuuri, and he turns to find the man waiting, smiling, two glasses of champagne in his hands. “At night, you can’t see the broken stones and the rotting places.

Yuuri takes the glass he’s offered, then nods out over the balcony. “What’s that over there,” he asks, “the place with all the lights?”

“What lights, sire?” 

When the man steps toward the wall, Yuuri dumps his champagne out onto the stones. Minako would kill him if he fell for a doctored drink, no matter what his instincts are screaming—have been screaming, ever since the stranger smiled up at him so dashingly. 

“My mistake,” Yuuri says. He steps up the barrier and wraps a hand around the other man’s arm, just above the elbow. 

The lights from the party behind them cast long shadows over the other man’s face, and Yuuri can’t read his eyes, but there’s a faint smile on his lips as he says, “Surely my king doesn’t make mistakes.”

Yuuri’s stomach sours. “Don’t call me that.”

“What?”

“‘My king’,” Yuuri says, then he adds, “or ‘sire’ or ‘Your Majesty’—none of them. Please, just call me Yuuri. I’m afraid that’s all I am.”

“Yuuri,” the man echoes, soft. He takes Yuuri’s hand from his arm and raises it, as if to kiss Yuuri’s signet ring—the ring Yuuri doesn’t have, the one that was lost to the sea, along with his sister.

He turns his hand instead, and the stranger’s warm lips land on his open palm. Their eyes meet, and Yuuri feels a jolt at the base of his spine. 

“Will you tell me _your_ name?” he asks. “It’s my birthday, after all.”

The man straightens. The smallest smile is back, and Yuuri’s now certain it’s fake. “Surely Your- Yuuri… Surely you want some better gift than that?”

“What would you give me?” Yuuri asks in return. He had one glass of wine earlier, and he dumped the champagne on the flagstones before it touched his lips, but his blood is running hot, his head swimming as if he’s been drinking for hours. He hates that the other man is wearing gloves, keeping their skin from meeting where their hands are still joined.

“Anything,” the man says. He doesn’t add _my king_ again, but Yuuri still hears it in spaces inside the word. 

There are many plays Yuuri could make in this moment, and many paths that he could take. In the back of his mind, a voice that sounds remarkably like Minako’s is whispering ways that he could twist this promise or use it to his advantage.

Instead, he sets down his empty glass and touches his fingers to the man’s bare cheek. “Your name would be enough.”

He can feel the tremor in the other man’s hands, the shaky inhale that seems to pull all the air from the balcony as Yuuri waits for him to speak.

“I should go,” he says. His eyes are wide, the blue in them dark as the midnight sky, reflecting back the starlight. He leans in and feathers a kiss on Yuuri’s cheek—daring. His breath is warm and sweet with champagne as he whispers by his ear, “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to—”

He doesn’t finish the thought before pulling away, prying his fingers from Yuuri’s hands as he tries to hang on. Yuuri sees his chance—perhaps his only chance—turning for the door, and it makes him bold. He stops questioning his gut and loosens his grip on that instinct which had been screaming at him since the moment the stranger held out a hand in the ballroom.

“ _Victor_ ,” Yuuri says. The word snaps through the air, and the man stops short, even before Yuuri can add, “Don’t go yet.”

“Yuuri…” He doesn’t turn back around. His back is straight as a rod, tense, but he doesn’t walk away. And he doesn’t deny it, though the name itself is an accusation. This is the king, calling out the rebel leader as a spy in his midst.

But it also isn’t.

Yuuri steps forward and takes his hand, tugging him back. “Come on. Let’s talk more.”

Victor makes no move to relax or to follow, and Yuuri pulls at him again. 

“It’s my birthday,” Yuuri says, almost pleading. “You promised me anything, and the name doesn’t count as a gift when I had to say it myself.” Victor turns and takes a step toward him, but then stops to look over his shoulder. No one is watching them.

Yuuri sighs. “If I wanted the guards on you, they’d be here already.” He thinks so, at least. Do even the guards take orders from him anymore? “Come back. Please.”

Even metal, if bent too many times, will break. Victor stops resisting. He follows Yuuri to the edge of the balcony and they stand side by side. On the cold stone wall that separates them from the city below, their hands overlap. The streets and gardens beneath them are dark, but lights and music and the laughter of the provide background through the open doors at their backs.

“How did you know?’ Victor asks. 

“Someone once told me you wore a mask,” says Yuuri. “And that you slipped into nobles’ parties unnoticed as a spy that way.” Yuuri glances over at his profile from the corner of his eye. Victor looks like any other well-bred young man, but _more_. One couldn’t help but notice him, even among the richest men in the kingdom. “I saw you, and I thought—this man would never need a mask.” 

Easier to hide in plain sight. Easier to avoid suspicion by sticking out. 

Victor’s lips quirk upward, hinting at a smile that might actually means something, somewhere beneath the facade. “Minako taught you well,” he says. 

He looks over at Yuuri, and his grip on Yuuri’s hand tightens. “Now what happens?”

“You should probably go,” Yuuri admits. “Before one of them _does_ notice I’m not where they want me to be, but—”

Straightening himself, Yuuri leans out over the balcony. He points, diagonal, to a small outcropping of stone, another balcony half this size. “If you’d like to meet again sometime, it’s that one. Those are my chambers. If you knock—”

“I know where you sleep,” Victor says. He sounds sad. 

Yuuri shivers, and they both must know it’s not the chill in the air, but Victor’s arm comes up around him anyway, pulling Yuuri back into the warmth of the other man’s body. This shouldn’t work, and Yuuri knows it. It’s the dream of a child, a fantasy of being saved, of being _safe_. Someday, this story is going to end with Yuuri face down on the stones with a knife in his back, no matter if the assassin is one of Victor’s or one of his own.

But right now, it doesn’t seem so hopeless, and the night is not so dark. Victor’s body is keeping him warm, and his breath is soft against Yuuri’s ear, and Victor knows who Yuuri is now—not the king, and certainly not a tyrant, but _Yuuri_. 

On the distant coast, beyond the city, a lighthouse blinks, guiding the lost ships home.

**Author's Note:**

> Screaming is best done on [twitter](https://twitter.com/louciferish) these days.
> 
> This story went longer than I expected it to so I may have... more of these. A few more. ~~Many more~~.


End file.
